


Perfectly Real (no schedule)

by BrosquadTM



Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: Alcoholic Logan Sanders, Apathy!Logan Sanders, Hurt/Comfort, I just want my boys to suffer, Loceit - Freeform, Loceit fluff, Logic | Logan Sanders Angst, M/M, Sad Logic | Logan Sanders, THERE WILL EVENTUALLY BE A HAPPY ENDING OKAY, actually all of thomas is sad, all sides are morally grey, and then get better, but then more hurt, it will just be in a while, nonromantic Analogical, nonromantic Logicality, nonromantic Logince, nonromantic Thomgan, okay so I'm gonna tag some ships that haven't happened yet and aren't romantic alrighty
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-08
Updated: 2020-04-04
Packaged: 2020-10-12 06:47:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20559983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrosquadTM/pseuds/BrosquadTM
Summary: Logan is tired. Of everything, the insults, the others ignoring him. He snaps.





	1. Perfectly Real chapters 1-5

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: alcoholism, depression, intrusive/suicidal thoughts, angst, space, Remus, Deceit, morally grey sides, non-platonic kisses, there's probably more  
Beta-ed by @aleiimm on Tumblr

Chapter 1

He was sick of it. Sick of everything. Sick of the world and the people in it. And he wasn’t even a person, not something more than a figment of Thomas’s imagination. Every insult, every biting remark stuck to his brain like tar, and it was slowly, slowly dragging him down. His thoughts were a poison that he kept on drinking, pulling him lower and lower. Well, lower than he already was. It wasn’t the only poison he was drinking, now. It was unhealthy and illogical and stupid, but the wine numbed everything, took off the edge so the bottle on his bedside table was a permanent decoration. 

Logan sat on the floor, reclining against the side of his bed, staring absently at the wall in front of him, it’s cool, dark gray staring back. He knew he should be working, the papers neatly organized on his desk, waiting to be revised. He checked his watch-- 4:30. They would start filming the video soon, and he should get together and sober before then, and actually memorize his lines… and fact-check them, so he didn’t make a mistake again, but he lacked the energy to do anything more than swirl his glass and pick at a fraying thread on his pants. 

“Logan, can you stop?” Patton’s voice echoed through his head, loud as ever.

“Look, Logan’s not here, let’s act like it,” Roman said coldly, his voice rippling through Logan’s memory.

The insults stung, sure, they were getting tiring and his drinking habit was getting out of hand… but were they wrong? Didn’t they have the right to criticize Logan? Rude, uncaring, unfeeling, cold, calculating, logical Logan. Logan who only cared if there was a mess to clean up, Logan who talked too much and listened too little. Logan checked his watch. 4:50. He got up, dusting himself off and straightening his tie. He set his wineglass on his bedside table and sunk down.

“Hello, Thomas. Is there anything I can do to help before we begin filming?” His speech was a little fuzzy, the wine making him care a little less about enunciation. 

“Uhhh, can you set up the tripod?” Thomas said without looking up, a pen in his mouth, hunched over a script making last-minute line changes. Logan pulled it out of its case, adjusting the legs as he let his mind wander.

_ They all hate you, _ said a voice whispering at the back of his mind.  _ They hate being around you, they could function just fine without you dragging them down, _ the voice danced like fire, igniting his mind, but he ignored it. It could play its games later, when he was in his room, nursing a chardonnay.

The others began popping in, asking about lines, suggesting jokes and tiny edits.

“Please, Thomas, just one ‘infinetesimal’ joke! Please?” Patton said excitedly. Logan ignored it, finishing adjusting the tripod. He knew this was what he deserved for making a mistake. A  _ stupid _ mistake. 

He sunk out to review his lines before filming, but his mind wandered as his eyes glazed over, staring through the paper. He felt the pull at the back of his neck, they needed him. He sighed, rising up, script in hand.

“Alright, everyone! Time to start filming! Roman rises up first in this video, so everyone be quiet…” Thomas continued talking, but Logan stopped paying attention, letting the empty static fill his brain, He stared forward, his eyes crossing.

“Logan! Logan, it’s your line!” Thomas said, startling Logan.

“Apologies,” Logan said, shaking himself. He crouched down, then rose up. “Thomas, you’re overthinking this. You’re still suffering from cognitive distortions.” Logan said his line with an ounce of annoyance because that was what the role required.

“Listen, teach, I’m wrong a lot, but I have a bad feeling about this one…” Virgil mumbled into his hoodie. The conversation continued, and Logan paid it some attention, so he wouldn’t miss another queue. Roman was talking about grand gestures of love (at least that’s what Logan thought he was talking about? It just sounded like flowery nonsense) and Patton and Virgil were listening intently. 

"... And besides, Thomas hasn't been on any dates lately, and he was really cute!" Roman finished, waving his hands wildly.

"Hey Logan!" Patton said, bouncing on the balls of his feet. Logan looked at him cooly. "You could say the amount of dates Thomas has been on lately is--" 

"Don't." Logan said, voice made of polished ice.

"--Infinitesimal?" Patton finished the joke, laughing a little.

"Thank you, Patton." Logan spat. The fury was barely held back in his voice, but none of them listened long enough to care.

"The number of dates Thomas has is almost as low as the number of fans Logan has!" Roman remarked, chuckling heartily. Virgil hid a snort behind his hand.

_ Oh. _ It was one of  _ those _ lines. Where Thomas didn't tell the victim so the reaction would be more genuine.

"I don't have a line here, Roman, but that's not going to stop me." Logan looked at the camera, still recording. He turned to Patton, his gaze ice. "You're pathetic. Ruled by your emotions, you can't ever seem to be happy, and you're constantly holding Thomas back. Good and Evil are just nonsense that you live by, like an idiot," there were tears inside him, somewhere, but they weren't close to the surface yet, his face was still marble, his eyes still flint.

"Logan--" Virgil started, surprised.

"Anxiety," Logan cut him off. "If any Side were to win the reward for weakest, it would be you. You constantly fall apart, sniveling like a kicked puppy. You hold Thomas back, you overthink, you close yourself off because you fear betrayal, and rejection. I hope all your fears come true." Inside Logan, the dam was breaking. But he still had more to say. "And  _ you," _ Logan said, turning toward the television. _ "Roman Creativity Sanders _ , are a waste of space and a disappointment to me in every possible way. Nothing you create will  _ ever _ be good enough for me, because you are a  _ terrible artist. _ And in the future, you will be forgotten, alone." Logan took a steadying breath and snapped his head toward Thomas. "You are the most ungrateful, unkind, and rude host I could have asked for. You all are infinitely disappointing and I'll be lucky to never see any of you again." Logan saw Patton tears, heard Virgil's quickened breathing, saw Roman's knuckles white in a fist, and Thomas's look of despair. But he couldn't seem to find it in himself to care. He sunk into his room.

"Now this won't do." Logan clapped his hands twice, summoning Deceit. 

"Wow teach, that was little far, even for me."

"Are you going to help me move or not?" Logan said. Cold. Unfeeling. Apathetic.

"Fine, I'll show you your new room," Deceit said, walking out of Logan's room. "What should I call you? You aren't going to be Logic anymore." There it was. He wasn't something good anymore. He was something… Not evil, he thought, but  _ free _ . Free of having to be good. He could just be himself.

"Call me Apathy," Apathy said.

~•°^•^°•~

Chapter 2

The room wasn't much, he supposed. An empty room, boxes of his things from his old room in one corner. It was boring, he thought. Neutral gray walls, thin gray carpet. It was boring. He had some ideas, though. He walked toward the door . It was simple black wood. Arriving next to the door, he brushed his fingers along the wall, and started walking the circumference of the room. In his wake, the walls fell away, being replaced by the endless void of space, full of cold, distant stars. 

Apathy stood back, admiring the constellations. He jumped, landing hard and breaking away the floor, revealing more stars in the bottomless depths below. He then moved toward the boxes of his things, opening the first one. Books, hundreds of them. In his old room, he had had bookshelves. But now… that simply wouldn't do. He stalked over to where he knew a wall was, underneath the stars. He pulled at it, and double doors formed, opening into a room with shelves and shelves, with blue velvet cushions and benches. Dragging the box over, he started filling his reading nook with his books, alphabetized, of course. Once he was done, he turned away, closing the doors that faded back into stars.

The next box had his chemistry sets, his klein bottles and his telescope. He summoned a clean black table and set them carefully in a corner, setting up his telescope to face into the darkness. The next two boxes held his ties and shirts.  _ No, won't do, not at all, _ his mind said, and he picked up a black polo shirt.  _ Hmmm, _ He thought. Brushing his fingers over it, he changed it's color to a blank, cold, unfeeling white. The ties wouldn't do either, striped in purple and indigo. He still loved indigo, but these were too lively. Too bright, too  _ feeling.  _ Apathy stared at them, searching his brain for something. And then it came to him. He ran his hand down a tie, changing it to a gradient. The top was light blue, fading into dark indigo, and then to black at the very bottom. And there, at the very end, a grinning mouth of sharp, thin, white teeth appeared.  _ What is  _ really  _ at the bottom of the ocean? _

Just a polo shirt and a tie seemed too little, now.  _ What to do? Ah! _ He summoned a black blazer, embroidered with the stars he loved so much. His black slacks were fine, for now. 

He turned to the last box. He pulled of the tape on the top, and pulled back the flaps.  _ Oh. _ It was all the things they had given him, when he was one of them. The screenplay Roman had wrote him, a macaroni painting from Patton, and a note from Virgil.  _ "Remember to rest, Teach. Overworking yourself isn't going to do anyone any good."  _ The glass in Apathy shattered. He fell to the floor, his head in his hands.

_ Pathetic,  _ his mind whispered.  _ Crying in your room because you miss them. What would they think if they saw you now? Weak, useless? You're Apathy now, you shouldn't be feeling this. You shouldn't be feeling at all.  _ Apathy steadied his breath. Weakness was not becoming. 

He got up, he needed to keep working on the room. He closed the box and pushed it into a corner,  letting it fade into the background of stars.  He summoned a bed, nothing more than a black bedframe and some dark blue sheets.

_ I need a reminder of how pathetic I am, _ he thought to himself. Across from his bed, he summoned a large mirror. Looking at himself in the glass, he saw how disgusting he looked. His eyes were red and puffy, his nose was red, his hair was disheveled. He ran his fingers through his hair, fixing it. Then he noticed his glasses. The same ones that Patton has. He ripped them off his face, and threw them at the wall across the room, hard. They shattered, and his mouth twisted into a smile.

He summoned a pair of contact lenses, and put them in. Now he could see his eyes  _ clearer _ .  _ No, _ he thought. He waved his hand, and the contacts turned white, his eyes now two while expanses. He blinked.  _ Good. _

_ Now, a name.  _ Logan would no longer fit him, it was a name for Logic. He was Apathy.  _ Apathy, _ he thought.  _ A disconnection between oneself and their feelings, a dissasocion of thought and emotion. Often experienced by those suffering from diagnosed depression. Hmm. So he was depression, now, then, too. Insecurity. Deadness to the world. Lovely.  _ He sat on his bed, his fingers tapping against his chin.  _ But what name? What fit him, now?  _ He leaned back on the bed, lost in thought. Then he jumped up, an idea striking him.  _ Hamlet, poor Hamlet, too sad to cope. The world was too much, and now he's dead.  _ Hamlet nodded at his decision, because Hamlet was his favorite play.  _ Hamlet, also known as Apathy,  _ he thought.

~•°^•^°•~

Chapter 3

Thomas missed Logan. He did, he really did. Logan had been so… Comforting. He had reassured Thomas when he felt stressed, he had done so many things to help.  _ So where did all that come from? _ Thomas stared into his microwave, thinking. After the video was done, him, Roman, Virgil, and Patton had all rushed to Logan's room, to find it empty except for a yellow post-it note on one of the dark indigo walls.  _ "You hurt him so much, and now you'll pay the price! :) -D" _ Deceit had left it for them, Thomas was sure.  _ Hurt him? How had they hurt Logan?  _ Thomas watched as the pizza from last night spun slowly in the microwave.

_ I guess we made fun of him a lot. He never really seemed bothered by it, though. And he… well, actually, he did seem bothered. Like when Roman called him stupid…  _ Thomas rested his chin on his hand. "We took it way too far."

"That's an understatement," said a cold, detached voice next to Thomas.

"Aaah! Who are you! What do you--" Thomas jumped up, yelling. The Side- it was definitely a side, had on a white shirt and a blazer with stars , and a tie, and  _ good Lord, those eyes. _ White and dead, and yet Thomas still felt watched. "--Logan?" Thomas asked, his voice wavering.

"No." Said the side, pulling at his tie. "Not anymore, at least."

"I'm so glad you're okay! I was worried about you!" Thomas said excitedly, before what the Side had said sunk in. "What do you mean, 'not anymore', Logan?"

The side held out a pale hand, looking Thomas in the eyes. Or Thomas thought he was looking at him in the eyes. "Apathy. Nice to see you again. Now, can you stop summoning me every five seconds so I can go back to my room?" He shook Thomas's hand firmly, then pulled his hand away sharply. 

"But… I'm not summoning you?"

"Yes you are, Thomas. God, do I have to explain everything to you? I'm not stupid, little, useless Logic anymore. I'm Apathy. I protect you, from your emotions. And right now… you don't want to feel. You don't want to feel anything. And I'm the only one who can help you." Those dead eyes followed Thomas as he shifted from foot to foot.

"You weren't useless before," Thomas said.

"Oh, don't lie to yourself, Thomas." Apathy's hands twisted together.

"I wasn't- whatever. What do you mean I don't want to feel? And how can you 'help me'?" Thomas said, making air quotes around the last two words.

"You don't want to feel the shame of the others, their regret. You don't want to face the guilt," Apathy said, unlacing his hands to clean out his nails. "And I can help you by taking the feelings away. Patton has tried to be like me for so long, keeping it all in to protect you…" Apathy got up, backing Thomas into the corner of his kitchen. "He doesn't need to anymore."

"What? Patton wouldn't…" Thomas's voice faded out.

"I can take the pain away, free of charge," now Apathy was smiling, his teeth just a little too white.

"Fine. But, just this once. It's just been really bad lately, and I missed you," Thomas's gripped the edge of the counter.

"Save it. I don't care." Apathy stepped forward, wrapping his arms around Thomas in a chilly and uncomfortable embrace.

"What are you doing, Lo- Apathy?" Thomas asked, his knuckles going whiter as he gripped the counter in fear.

Apathy pressed his lips to Thomas's, and they were cold, and they showed no emotion. After a moment, he pulled away. "You're welcome, shitheel."

Thomas raised a hand to his lips, and felt nothing. He was empty, he felt no shame or guilt or worry. He just felt nothing. He walked over to the microwave as it beeped, pulling out the pizza.

~•°^•^°•~

Thomas summoned Patton a few days later, his camera set up. "What is it, kiddo?" Patton asked, smiling.

"I'm worried about Logan." Thomas looked down at his shoes. "The note Deceit left… and, and a few days ago, Patton, he showed up in the kitchen and he looked completely different!"

"Oh, Kiddo…" Patton said. "He wasn't good to us. But- but, we were good to him either. And slowly, maybe, we can convince him to come back. To come home."

"Patton, you didn't see him! He was wearing a coat and his shirt was white and his eyes were white too! And… And…" Thomas trailed off, his cheeks heating up.

"That sounds scary…" Patton said, looking at his hands. "And…?" He asked carefully.

"... He kissed me." Thomas whispered, scared. "And then I didn't feel anything! I didn't feel bad about… About him leaving! For two days! And he called himself Apathy. He said he wasn't Logic anymore. He said… he said he wasn't Logan anymore."

"Oh, no. This isn't good." Patton waved a hand, and Roman and Virgil appeared.

"Yes? Hello everyone!" Roman said, his smile slipping just a bit.

"We're talking about Logan," Thomas explained.

"Oh." Roman scratched the back of his neck.

"For the last time, Thomas," said Apathy, appearing out of nowhere in his spot. "I'm not Logan anymore. I'm Apathy."

Virgil moved away from Apathy, looking fearfully around the room.

"What the heckity heck…?" Roman said, looking Apathy up and down.

"Get over yourself, Roman, dear." Apathy leaned against the banister.

"Logan--" Patton started.

"Are you trying to make me say my new name out of frustration? For now, and maybe forever, you will all call me  _ Apathy _ . If I hear that  _ idiot's _ name one more time, I will call up Deceit. Or maybe Remus…" Apathy hissed it out, his voice a cold gust of air.

"We're alright without them, Bright Eyes," Virgil growled.

"Then show me an ounce of respect, Punk Reject. Don't bring up old memories," Apathy summoned a bottle of wine, pouring out a glass. Even after reworking himself, he still hadn't been able to kick the habit.

"L-Apathy? That isn't good for you, kiddo," Patton said gently.

"Oh come off it, Pat, alcohol--" he turned to look at Thomas pointedly. "Is kind of like me. Dampens everything, gets rid of icky…  _ emotions." _ He snapped his head back to Patton on the last word, taking another sip.

Roman scoffed, his hand coming up in a dramatic gesture. "Emotions aren't  _ icky,  _ they're wonderful!" 

"Are they?" Apathy and Patton said, in unison. Virgil scratched the back of his neck.

"Listen, Apathy. I know the… desire to make all the emotions go away. To make all the pain go away. But it doesn't work. After every night drunk, there's a morning hangover," Virgil said evenly, only a slight tremble betraying his fear.

"Take painkillers. Drink an Irish Coffee. Live life in a daze of empty, and the hurt goes away." Apathy swigged from his wineglass again, looking around with his pale eyes. "Besides, Virgil, Love," Apathy stared at the side closest to him. "The drinking problem started way before… this." He gestured to himself, his words slurring slightly.

"Hold on! Just hold. On. A second. You've been drinking for a  _ while?  _ And you didn't  _ tell me?"  _ Thomas said, fire flaring in his eyes.

"If I told you about my… drinking problem, then next you would want to know about my insecurities, and if you knew about my insecurities, you'd want to know anxiety, and if you wanted to know about my anxiety, you'd want to know about my depression, and if you wanted to know about my depression, you'd want to know about my suicidal thoughts, and if you knew about my suicidal thoughts, you would stop me."

"... Logan-" Patton began.

"Hamlet." Apathy said. "Shit. Well, now you know."

"... Hamlet. You were depressed? And you dealt with anxiety and alcoholism before you… snapped at us? And you didn't say anything because we would be  _ worried about your safety!?"  _ Patton almost yelled the last part. 

Hamlet hiccuped. "That about covers it, yeah? Why do you care, Morality?" Hamlet began to laugh, a high, shrieking laugh, like a tropical bird. "Don't tell me you cared for  _ Logan,  _ oh, that would be rich!"

Patton stumbled backward. " _ Of course  _ we cared for Logan! We all cared for Logan! How dare you even  _ suggest  _ that we didn't?"

"Shut it, Morality. If you cared for me, cared for  _ him _ , you might've thought before you opened that trap of yours during script review." Hamlet set down his wineglass and clasped his hands together, imitating Patton's voice. "Please? Please Thomas? Just on infinitesimal joke? Logan doesn't have feelings, of course, so I should make fun of the mistake! The one where he locks himself in his room for hours afterwards just reviewing the script over and over and over so that all his lines are perfect. Please? I want to make sure he watches himself make the mistake an extra  _ ten times  _ today!" Hamlet unclasped his hands. Patton put a hand to his mouth, never having realized what he said hurt Logan so much.

"Patton would never knowingly hurt you like that Lo- Hamlet!" Roman said grandly.

Hamlet summoned a sword, brandishing it as he put on a mockery of Roman's accent. "I'm the best side and I can do no wrong! Everything I create is perfect and Logan is just too fussed with the details to see it. That's why no one likes him! Besides, who would like someone boring when they could like me instead! He'll never have friends because he doesn't understand emotions; heck, he doesn't even have them!" The sword vanished, and Roman opened his mouth, but nothing came out. The other three looked at each other and Thomas, not knowing what to say. Eventually, Virgil piped up.

"Look, I know that Roman is obnoxious sometimes, but cut him and Patton some slack, they-"

Hamlet interrupted him, lowering his voice, hunching his back. "I don't want to listen to reason because reason means that my delusions are wrong! And I hate being wrong, almost as much as Logan does! So I know what I'll do, I'll shut him up. Cut him off. If he can't get a word in edgewise, he can't stop me from keeping Thomas from everything he loves." Hamlet's mouth twitched in a dead smile. 

"That's enough, Apathy. Or, or Hamlet, or whatever.  _ Go.  _ Don't come back until you've learned to play nice!" Thomas yelled, his voice breaking.

~•°^•^°•~

Chapter 4

Hamlet sat in the Dark Commons, the communal gathering space for the Dark Sides, and swirled his glass slowly, his eyes glazing over. "Get up, Hamlet," Deceit said, leaning on the counter of Thomas' dream-kitchen. 

Hamlet turned his head slightly, not facing Deceit, but closer to it. "No, I don't want to."

_ "Hamlet." _ Deceit hissed, straightening his back. "You're drinking again. What bottle iss that? Your third? Your ssixth? Your tenth? Jusst becausse you can't die from alcohol poissoning doessn't mean you can jusst keep yoursself drunk all the time."

Hamlet laughed dryly. "You must be really worried about me or you wouldn't have that lisp popping up, Deceit."

"Sso what if I'm worried about you? You're on my sside now. Sso you can't go about being… sself disstructive. That helpss me jusst ass much ass it helpss you."

"Aw, you care about me."

"Sshut up."

"I thought… being Apathy would mean I didn't feel anymore. But I feel… more. When I helped Thomas, that emotion… from the others, from him, it- it didn't disappear. It just went to me. And so, for  _ two days," _ Hamlet's knuckles turn white around the wine glass- "I was crying, and hurting, and sniveling in my room. I'm pathetic."

Deceit looked down at his hands, walking around the counter to where Hamlet was sitting at the table. "You're not pathetic, you're jusst not ussed to your new job. Ssay, are you sstill doing the dutiess of Logic ass well ass Apathy?"

"No. I made something to do the work of Logic for me." Hamlet took a sip from his wine glass, rolling the wine around under his tongue.

"Hamlet. Sstop drinking the wine. It makess you boring to talk to." Deceit snatched the wine glass, disappearing it into thin air. Hamlet whined, high in his throat.

"It hurts, Deceit. It hurts too much to bear. The wine helps. It keeps me sane."

"It doess quite the oppossite, Dear. It keepss you drunk."

~•°^•^°•~

Patton was tidying his room, humming along to the  _ Campfire Song _ song from SpongeBob, which was playing in the background.  _ I feel fine _ , he told himself. His room was messy, like always, but he was moving new things into their places. Piles of treasured memories filling up the space in his floor, heaping around his bed, which was neatly made.  _ I miss Logan, _ he thought, and he forced it down, along with the sob rising in his throat. 

"Stop trying to do my job, Patton, really. I'm starving for work here."

_ Hamlet. And he knew. _ He  _ knew _ how Patton was feeling and knew that he was hiding it. "Hamlet. Hello."

"Hello Patton! So glad to know you're still trying to do my job for me!" Hamlet said with mock enthusiasm.

"I don't know what you mean." 

"Oh, don't do Deceit's job for him either, he'll be in quite a tizzy. And I should know."

Patton pushed his glasses up, pressing the heels of his hand into his eyes. "Hamlet, leave me alone."

"But I'm here to help you, Patton. You know, Logan  _ liked _ you. He thought you were so beautiful. He would try to impress you, all the time… And you hated me- him."

Patton took his hands away from his eyes. "I never hated you! I never did! Stop  _ saying  _ that! I  _ loved  _ you. I loved you more than  _ anything,  _ and you left me!  _ You  _ left," Patton hissed, tears threatening to fall across his face. 

"Don't cry," Hamlet said coldly, patting the spot on Patton's bed next to him. "Come. Sit. Indulge in nothingness."

Patton picked his way to the bed, because he just wanted to feel Logan's arms, just wanted to know he was still there, even if he was different.

Hamlet watched him lay down, Patton resting his head on Hamlet's legs. "Love, don't cry. Crying is so messy."

Patton sniffed, a tear trailing down his cheek. "Love?"

"Don't read into it. I can take the pain away, Love, it would be so easy for you…" Hamlet ran a hand through Patton's hair.

"For me? Why… what would happen to you?" Patton asked, his eyes opening.

"I'd feel it. Everything you felt. Oh, it hurts. But, I can finally be useful, even at the expense of my sanity." Hamlet had a far-away look on his face, his white eyes wide.

"I don't want to hurt you! I'd never want to hurt you." Patton reached a hand up to pet Hamlet's shoulder.

"Funny to hear that from you."

"Why?"

"Because…" Hamlet seemed to choose his words carefully. "Unimportant. Patton, kiss me."

"What!?" Patton sat up quickly, blinking the black spots from his eyes. Hamlet just looked at him, his mouth hanging open slightly.

"Kiss me."

Patton hid his face in his hands, his cheeks on fire. He swallowed. "You sure?" When Hamlet nodded, he leaned in. Hamlet's lips were cold, emotionless. But Patton felt the passion in his own lips fade, and suddenly Hamlet's had the passion his lacked, and Patton broke the kiss, his mind empty. "That happened." But Hamlet was already gone.

~•°^•^°•~

Chapter 5

Hamlet lay on the floor of his room, in the dark, the stars distant and unfeeling. Hamlet felt bile rise in his throat, tears burning his eyes. _It's what you deserve, the pain._ He swallowed the bile down, slamming a fist against his starry floor. _You don't deserve the love, though. The _passion _that you feel. That's stolen. Thief._ Patton's love for him felt like hope, like life. Like something good, which Hamlet didn't deserve. He wiped at his eyes, but the tears kept falling. _Just die, _said the voice in the back of Hamlet's mind. 

"I should just die."

"You should do no such thing," Deceit placed a hand on Hamlet's back, rubbing loose circles into the knots of tension. Hamlet collapsed onto the floor, his muscles giving out. He let his eyes drift closed, caring too much to function as Deceit picked him up and placed him on the bed.

"Why not?" Hamlet managed.

"Because, believe it or not, I care about you." Deceit pulled off Hamlet's shoes, setting them aside. He put a hand on the small of Hamlet’s back underneath his blazer, using his other hand to slide Hamlet’s blazer off gently without jostling him too much. He pulled gently at the knot of the tie. 

"How could you. I'm worthless," Hamlet's hand reached up to grab Deceit's wrist.

"That's the depression talking, darling." Deceit shook off Hamlet's hand, untying his tie and pulling it off. "If you need something to combat the voice in your head, I can fight it for you."

Hamlet feebly undid a few buttons on his dress shirt. Deceit stood up, turning away from him.

"Please. Stay."

Deceit turned around, looking surprised. He unclasped his cape, shaking it off his shoulders and busied himself with his shoes. When he was just in his dress shirt, slacks, and gloves, he lay next to Hamlet, without touching him, keeping a foot of distance between them.

"It doesn't matter if you're here, if you're not  _ here,"  _ Hamlet turned to Deceit, his arms open.

"Okay," Said Deceit, sliding in between Hamlet's arms. He tentatively hung an arm over Hamlet's torso, and felt as Hamlet breathed raggedly, his chest heaving. “Hamlet?”

“Yes, Deceit?”

“Please don’t die,” Deceit whispered, his voice cracking slightly. He tilted his head down so Hamlet couldn’t see his face, the smell of clean linen, salt, and just a tiny whiff of wine coming from Hamlet’s chest and shirt.

“I’ll try not to,” Hamlet murmured into Deceit’s ear, gripping him just a little tighter. He felt Deceit pull him impossibly closer in response, Deceit’s gloved hands almost desperate to cling to him. 

~•°^•^°•~

Remus was overjoyed at the delopments. Not only was once-Logan-now-Hamlet, his former favorite Light Side, one of the Dark Sides now, but what Hamlet was doing, senselessly doing his job, taking emotion away, easing pain was making it just  _ too easy  _ for Remus to infiltrate every part of Thomas’s mind and wreak havoc. While sweet little Patton was feeling nothing in his room all alone, Remus was  _ alive. _ More than he’d ever been before, most likely. The possibilities are endless, and he has all the time to explore them. 

Remus shakes his head slightly, reigning in his thoughts. He pulls another length of tape from the roll and rips it with his teeth, using his other hand to pull another severed finger from the pink and yellow grass woven basket tucked under his arm and taping it to the wall, next to the other forty or so which now covered the hallway between Roman and Patton’s rooms and the kitchen. He would hear a good scream from this later, from Roman, because Patton was too busy being not-emotional.  _ Boo-hoo,  _ Thought Remus.  _ I may be insane, but at least I’m not boring. _ Remus pulled the last finger out of the basket and taped it up, stepping back to admire his work. 

“What’s next?” He whispered to himself, there was so much to do! It was so amazing to have Hammy on team, life was just… better! Remus skipped away, humming his theme from the videos. 

Stopping by his room for supplies, he set down the basket and roll of tape. He picked up his morning star and a jar of hornets, just in case. Or just in jar, as the case may be. He tucked the jar into a pocket on the inside of his sash and waltzed out into the Light Sides common room. Pulling a previously non-existent speaker from behind a chair, he pressed a well-loved cassette into the slot and clicked a clunky button on the top. As the feedback noises started to rattle through the speaker, Remus set it down on a table, starting his dance to Metal Machine Music, Part 1.

As the strange sounds filled the room, Remus centered himself, feeling the non-rhythm of the music. He closed his eyes, evening his weight across his feet, He lifted his hands, his morning star raised in a delicate, almost dainty hold. He surged forward, his morning star coming down on an overstuffed armchair. He heard the wood crack, heard the fabric rip over the squeal of the guitar through the speakers. His lept back, twirling on a pointed foot twice before running toward the tv, his nails sharpening into small daggers as he dragged them across the screen, leaving deep scratches in their wake.

The music seared through his brain, his thoughts calm for once. He centered himself again, pulling in a deep breath. So much furniture to wreck, so little time. He jumped to the couch, bending his knees as he landed on the cushions to soften his fall and shot back up, stepping carefully onto the back of the couch, then doing a pirouette, his balance never faltering. He then took a step toward the middle of the couch, then turned and brought his morning star down on the spot he just vacated. The  _ crunch _ of the wood brought butterflies into Remus’s stomach and he jumped farther away from the busted end of the couch, clicking his heels in the air. He brought the morning star down again, and the noise made him shiver. 

“Fuck! This is the life!” He yelled, throwing his head back. The noise from the speaker was still screeching through the room, and Remus screamed along with it, his eyes glowing red. He was drunk on the power, the freedom. Virgil and Patton couldn’t stop him now, not when they were so weak, not when Hammy had  _ made  _ them so weak. He jumped again, bringing the morning star down on the last uninjured part of the couch, the snap of wood and squeal of springs in time with a particularly jarring scream from a guitar. Remus tossed his head back again, his high, reedy laughter filling the room and bouncing off the walls. 

He ran at the wall, hair falling in his face, dropping his morning star and digging his fingers into the wall, kicking his feet up and scrambling up the wall. Once his head bumped the ceiling he kicked at the wall, lodging his feet into the plaster. He pulled out the jar of hornets from his sash pocket. Winding his arm up, he waited for the song to devolve into an indecipherable mess and hurled it at the ground, the hornets shooting out and buzzing angrily, zipping through the air.

“I think my work here is done,” Remus whispers to himself, unlatching his feet from the wall. “This is for you, Hammy.” Remus falls, his shrieking laughter echoing in his ears. He hits the ground and the darkness closes in and he sees stars before he goes unconscious, lying in the middle of a wrecked room as Metal Machine Music howls.

~•°^•^°•~


	2. chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lomgimce???? Haha hEhOo also more Loceit who do you take me for

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I used ** to mark italics so if I forgot just leave a comment and I'll maybe readd it at some point probably

Chapter 6

Hamlet woke up, his eyes sliding open slowly. He had taken out his contacts in the night, and his eyes laid on Deceit, who was pressed against his chest. Deceit felt Hamlet stir and clutched him tighter, his still-gloved hands digging into Hamlet's crinkled dress shirt. Hamlet squeezed Deceit back in response, his soft brown eyes trailing over Deceit's calm profile.

Deceit buried his face deeper into Hamlet's chest, humming happily when he had found himself comfortable. Hamlet cracked a small smile, warmth he wasn't used to feeling filtering through his chest. 

Hamlet raised a hand to card through Deceit's hair. Deceit opened his yellow eye, looking up at Hamlet. 

"You feel better, Hamlet?" Deceit asked slowly. He moved a hand up and down Hamlet's back, looking up into his eyes.

"Yeah, I feel… It hurts less," He settled on. Patton's grief and guilt was still there, somewhere inside of Hamlet, but now it was fuzzed out by the warmth of Deceit, the firmness of Deceit's hands on his back.

"Anything to make the hurt go away, right?" Deceit said quietly.

"Anything," Hamlet said quietly.

"Hey, hey, hey," Deceit said, wriggling out of Hamlet's arms and leaning over him. "That's not what I meant."

Hamlet looked up at Deceit, whose hair was falling in his face, a dusting of red sprinkled upon his cheeks. "Yeah, I won't die on you."

"Promise?" It was barely a whisper, barely there, but it hung between them as Deceit leaned over Hamlet, staring into each other's eyes. 

"Promise." Hamlet averted his eyes, his cheeks heating up.

Deceit followed the movement then looked down at himself. He jumped back. "Sorry! I know you're not really comfortable with touch and we're barely even friends I-" 

"It's fine, Deceit, really." Hamlet gave a quiet laugh. "I asked you to stay."

"Okay." Deceit relaxed a bit, and Hamlet kicked off his covers, swinging his legs off the bed.

"So you want coffee? Tea? Wine?" Hamlet summoned a bottle and a glass, smiling.

“It’s a little early for that, Hamlet.” Deceit gave him a stern look.

Hamlet laughed. "You would say that, huh? Stop worrying, Deceit." 

"I'll always be worried if you're drinking at-" he looked around the room, and then summoned a clock. "Seven thirty-two in the morning." 

"You care about me or something, Dr. Jekyll?" Hamlet set down the bottle and sat on the edge of his bedside table.

"Of course,  _ Polonius,"  _ Deceit shot back.

"Low blow." Hamlet summoned a mug of coffee. "Just this once, I'll follow your rules."

Deceit smiled, summoning a mug of his own, blowing softy to cool it.

~•°^•^°•~

“It’s all my fault,” Roman gripped the edge of the sink tighter, his knuckles turning white. He looked up into the mirror, sniffling weakly at his reflection. He turned his head, unable to meet his own red eyes. “I messed up! I always mess up! I always do this!” Roman took a shuddering breath.

“I’m useless. I’m worse than useless. I’m a hinderance,” Roman rubbed his hand beneath his nose.

The anger boiled in him. Most days, it was passion. Most days, it was love and exuberance and pride and everything good about Roman. Other days, it was the anger. Anger seemed too tame for it, it was colder. It wasn’t face-red, screaming anger. It was ice that ground through your blood and the freezing north and the whistle of caves in a storm. It was loathing, and Roman felt his heart stop as he began to laugh, his voice jumping from octave to octave as it broke again and again. 

He turned on his reflection, his face stone. “You’re pathetic,” he whispered. “You’re a failure, a waste of imagination. Everything you touch gets worse and worse and worse and falls apart.  _ You’re _ the evil twin.  _ You’re _ the waste of space.” Roman took a deep breath. He whispered, maybe to himself, rather than his reflection, “you made Logan go.”

“Hamlet, please. Logan’s gone.” There was that voice again, cold and low, and Roman whipped around, staring at Hamlet, who leaned against the frame of the door, white eyes leveling Roman with a look of disinterested scorn. 

“Get out of my room,” Roman said hoarsely, no fight behind his words. The anger burned, in it’s cold way, but Hamlet didn’t deserve his scorn. Hamlet had just… reacted appropriately to Roman’s persistent idiocy.

“If I could, I would.” Hamlet grimaced, pushing off of the door frame with his shoulder so he was standing upright. "Unfortunately, you have need of my abilities."

"Abilities?" Roman asked, eyes crossing slightly as he thought. "What abilities?"

Hamlet put his hand to his temple, taking in and releasing a painfully slow breath. "I'm Apathy, of course I have--" He waved his hand on the air as if to demonstrate.

"Whatever. So how are you gonna… help me, or whatever?" Roman's anger still seethed inside him, but he was glad to see Lo-Hamlet again. At least Hamlet didn't completely hate him.

"Ugh, I hate this part." Hamlet grabbed Roman's sash, pulling him forward. 

Roman stumbled, windmilling his arms to keep his balance, looking up once he had stabilized and found himself very close to Hamlet. "Uh, what?"

Hamlet quirked his eyebrow at Roman, then cupped his face firmly and brought it to his own, pressing their lips together.

Roman's eyes shot open, but he melted into the kiss, confused. He closed his eyes, feeling the emotions slip out of him into Hamlet's cold lips.

Hamlet broke the kiss, sinking out. Roman stood in a daze, his eyes crossed, before he went to lie down. He was tired. Pulling the covers over himself, his large plush bed felt too big, too empty. All the fairy lights in his room dimmed, their bright and rich red fading to a warm gray that turned the lively paintings on his walls sour. 

The portrait he painted of Logan stared at him in disapproval, cold blue eyes chips of ice behind his thick glasses, skin turned ashen by the morose lighting. His room had always been tied to his emotions, and now it was gray, neutral, dull. Emotionless. Roman couldn't find it in himself to care.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :D thanks for the comments fam for some reason AO3 didn't tell me :V


	3. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Morally gray sides, anger, yelling, caps, self-deprecation, depression, food misuse, shattered glass/glass breaking, weaponry, alcoholism mention, suicide mention, death mention, discussion of morality, fire mention, weaponry, pining, crying, swearing

Thomas was getting weaker. It wasn't a subjective thing, Remus knew how it worked. There was… brainspace. And when something cleared up all the emotion taking up that space (Roman's passion, Patton's caring, Virgil's stress); it left room. Left room for Remus to play and to do what he wanted. Gave him… freedom. And with every thought that Remus shot through Thomas' stagnating mind filled more of it with disgust, which Hammy then dealt with, leaving oh-so-much-room for Remus. It was a vicious cycle in the best kind of way, and Remus loved it.

And well, when Roman wasn't creating, Remus was more than happy to pick up the slack-- the next video or project was sure to cover something a little more sour than Thomas' usual flavor. _Sour? Bitter?_ Remus despised the typical, Western idea of morality as a black-to-white scale. _Roman and his "dark" and "light" sides. Haven't we as a society and Thomas as a creator come far enough to know that having "bad"--_ Remus chuckles at the idea of him, Deceit, and Hamlet being bad. _\--as dark and "good" as light is flawed and boring? Where was the subversion? The varied texture of writing?_

Remus blinked a few times, sighing. He snapped his fingers, summoning a jar of steak sauce, which he unscrewed and began to pour carefully over the shelves of food in the light sides' food cabinets. Remus scrunched his nose, the smell of the steak sauce pungently sweet. It had a unpleasant viscosity, and with Roman down for the count-- _thanks again, Hammy!!_ \--it would be difficult for Virgil and Patton to clean.

Remus couldn't truly say that there was no fraction of vengeance in his actions. The way that the "light sides" _perhaps there was subversion? It seemed the "lights" were far more… morally unclean than the "darks"... _had treated Hamlet put a little more fire in Remus' blood. They had mistreated him to the point of alcoholism and suicidality! _Ludicrous. We should use the ancient Egyptian color meanings. Dark was clearly the side in the right_.

Remus threw the empty jar down to the floor, enjoying how it shattered. He summoned more jars, hurling them down one after another until the room was covered in a turmoil of shattered glass. Remus leapt over the wreckage, landing outside of the kitchen. He summoned glass barriers which stuck to the wall outside of the kitchen, which were about two feet high. 

Rushing back to his room, he picked up a massive sack- throwing in over his shoulder and running back. He crawled on top of the counters to avoid the glass and tore the sack open, watching as the pounds and pounds of Jell-O powder spilled onto the floor. Walking along the counter, spreading it out as best he could, Remus stifled a giggle. 

He summoned a small fire, in the center of the room, which was water resistant. He reached down, turning the sink onto full blast and pulling the head so it sprayed out across the floor, quickly filling up the now sealed-off kitchen. Remus summoned his morning star, extending the handle so he could gently stir the ~4488 gallons of liquid Jell-O mixture. 

Eventually, he snapped his fingers, stopping the fire. He lowered the temperature in the room, skipping away while the giant glass & pizza flavored batch of Jell-O cooled.

~•°^•^°•~

Hamlet hated the anger. Almost as much as he hated himself. And oh did Hamlet hate himself. There was so much _heat_. It was burning Hamlet alive, his cheeks flushed and his veins filled with fire. Roman's anger was so different from Patton's sadness, it made Hamlet so…. Incoherent. And hot. Hamlet tore off his tie and blazer, throwing them angrily against the wall of his room. He fumbled for a few moments with the buttons of his dress shirt before just ripping them off, leaving a horizontal stripe of his chest exposed.

"FUCK!" he yelled, just because it felt good to be loud. "FUCK IT! I HATE _EVERYTHING_!" It felt good to scream, and Hamlet pushed up his sleeves. His room was burning with heat. It felt so bad and so good and Hamlet felt so _alive_, with all that fire in him.

"Hamlet?" There was a gentle knock on the door, slightly muffled as if the knocker was wearing silken gloves (which he was). "May I come in?"

"Yes, Dee, come in! COME IN!" Hamlet wasn't mad at Deceit, he was mad at the door, and his room, and Roman, and Thomas, but most of all himself. 

Deceit opened the door, stopping once he caught sight of Hamlet's chest. He swallowed. "Hamlet, you're… you've been sscreaming for a while, I came to check on you. Make ssure you're okay."

"I'm so fucking mad! I hate myself so much!" Hot tears started falling down Hamlet's face. He really couldn't bear feeling _so much_ all at once. How the others managed it, he didn't know. 

"Hamlet," Deceit's voice cracked slightly, and Hamlet felt slightly sick hearing it. "Hamlet, can you lie down for me, pleasse?"

"Yes! Fuck!" Hamlet flopped down on the bed, the springs groaning with the force of the impact. Tears still ran down Hamlet's face in tiny rivers, dripping down onto the bed sheets beneath him.

Deceit walked closer, the heels of his boots subtly clicking against Hamlet's floor. He wasn't wearing his full outfit that day, that morning he had opted for a soft yellow sweater over a loose fitting tank top and yoga pants. He pulled the sweater over his head and tossed it to the side, then pulled off the beanie he'd been wearing, feeling how hot the air around Hamlet was. 

"You're…" Hamlet trailed off, incoherent. He was… he wasn't able to form sentences at the moment. Everything hurt so much. _Feeling_ hurt so much.

"I'm only here to help, I know how you are after you… transsfer emotions. I wissh you would sstop doing thiss to yoursself." Deceit sat down on the bed next to Hamlet, pulling off his shoes and setting them carefully by the bed. 

"It's my duty, Dee. It is!" Hamlet felt awful for yelling like that. _Stupid stupid stupid_, his brain supplied.

"You sshould help them manage their emotionss, not take them away. You're ussing them ass toolss to aid in your sself disstructive behaviorss. I know you don't believe me, but it'ss true." Deceit rested his head on Hamlet's shoulder, looping an arm around Hamlet's waist. He breathed deeply and evenly, leading Hamlet to do the same. Some forbidden part of him wished that this was… _more_. That Deceit could hug Hamlet like this when Hamlet wasn't having a breakdown. He shoved that part of himself away, it was too complicated to process now, in Hamlet's arms.

Hamlet drifted to sleep, the knot in his brows smoothing. Deceit watched him, the heavy blush on Hamlet's face, and smiled. He was glad that he could help Hamlet, that he could be there when he needed him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so sorry for the wait!

**Author's Note:**

> This is the most rushed, I will edit this to some semblance of a well tagged and presented fic later


End file.
